


Whisper - 4/30

by imachar



Series: 30 ficlets series [4]
Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: M/M, Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-21
Updated: 2012-04-21
Packaged: 2017-11-04 02:36:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/388747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imachar/pseuds/imachar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wank!fic - featuring a young and sex-deprived Captain Pike.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Whisper - 4/30

 

 

Chris Pike closes his eyes and leans his head back on the edge of the tub as the spa jets pulse the naturally heated mineral waters against all the tense and aching places on his body that are carrying the stresses of four months of patrol duty along the Romulan neutral zone. The J-class is among the most spartanly appointed of Starfleet’s patrol ships – only minimal recreation facilities and strictly sonic showers, even for the senior officers – and this 27-year-old captain believes to the core of his being that he’s more than earned the next six days of hedonism on Celes II. The debauchery won’t really get started until Phil manages to join him, he was supposed to already be here but a brief comm a few hours before indicated that he’d be a little late. So Chris is getting started without him.

The hotel room is built into the cliffs overlooking a series of waterfalls and hot springs and the view from the massive deck that holds the hot tub in which Chris is currently luxuriating is breath-taking; for all that he’s too relaxed to open his eyes and enjoy it at this exact moment. Focusing on the more immediate sensations of touch and sound and taste he stretches out in the tub and sighs as the water roils and pulsates around him. There’s Andorian jazz playing on the room’s sound system, he’s got a generous, well-iced caipirinha to hand and he lets his mind wander in the direction of Starbase 24’s darkly brooding and exquisitely handsome CMO. It’s been six months since their last assignation, a brief and wrenchingly stressful five hours in the wake of the loss of the Kelvin, and while there’s been sex with others in the interim – for both of them, he supposes – Chris has to admit that there is _nothing_ quite like sex with Phil. Affection and affinity and ever increasing familiarity lending their encounters an intensity that he can’t get anywhere else.

His cock stirs and twitches at the thought of that long, lean wiry body; the clever hands and mouth; the way one eyebrow goes up as Phil gives him that sardonic smile and growls soft commands, his voice low and rough and layered with warmth and careful authority.

And now Chris is fully hard and _oh fuck_ he has to touch himself. For a brief moment he considers holding out for Phil’s arrival, but he knows himself, knows that his already impressive twenty minute refractory period is going to be reduced even further just at the thought of fucking Phil so he can afford to take the edge off. And with a low sigh of relief he slides a hand down his chest, teasing a little – thumb flicking lightly across a taut nipple, short blunt nails tracing a path through the generous spread of hair across his chest and down the indented midline of his abdomen. With his free hand he reaches for his glass and takes a long draught of the caipirinha, savouring the burnt-sugar sweetness of the cachaça and the citrus bite of the lime and then lays the glass aside, sliding his hand beneath the frothy surface of the water and letting the heat leach away the chill of the iced glass before he wraps his fingers firmly around his cock.

The first stroke makes him shiver and, secure in the knowledge that he can’t be overheard, perched out here on the cliff-wall, he lets a long, low moan roll up from deep in his chest. Thumb brushing firmly against the seam where foreskin meets shaft he wraps his other hand around his balls and groans again as his hips arch up off the wide wooden seat at the edge of the tub, an involuntary spasm that telegraphs his desperate need to bury his cock in something hotter and tighter and slicker than his own fist. But for now the fist will have to do, and Chris tightens his grip and eases his thumb over his glans, flicking the tip back and forth across the tiny, sensitive slit, even as he slides two fingers from his other hand back beneath his body to press teasingly against his anus. He doesn’t attempt penetration, not a fan of the less-than-ideal lubricating qualities of mineralized spa water, just teases against the muscle with a sweetly tormenting pressure even as he begins to strip his cock in a fast, entirely too-proficient rhythm.

He’s so utterly caught up in the tightening spiral of sensation that he’s completely taken off guard when a broad, strong hand curves over the crown of his head, fingers twisting gently into his hair to tug his head back. Chris startles, eyes suddenly wide, hands flailing for the lip of the tub and then relaxes with a sigh and a smile of recognition as Phil grins at him and then leans in for a kiss that is long and sweet and edged with just a hint of possession. There’s a long silence while they fight the now familiar skirmish for dominance with lips and tongues and hands and then Chris tries to tip the balance in his favour, tries to pull Phil into the tub with him and Phil pulls back and nips lightly at Chris’ bottom lip.

“I don’t think so.” There’s a low gravel to Phil’s voice that speaks of stress and fatigue and a profound yearning for the physical and emotional solace of the shared intimacies that are becoming so familiar to them. But there’s also an undercurrent of humour and Chris is surprised as Phil pulls back and levers himself into one of the synth-teak steamer chairs on the deck as he goes on. “You were managing just fine before I got here – how about you just finish what you started?”

“You like to watch?” This is something new to them and it makes Chris grin with easy delight. Phil just nods, one eyebrow raised, his head tilted to indicate that Chris should get on with it, and stretches out on the chair, sliding a hand over his own slightly tented crotch before flicking open the fastenings of his uniform pants and freeing his slowly swelling cock.

Despite the brief shock of being disturbed Chris’ erection has barely flagged and it takes only the most cursory attention to get it back to full, leaking hardness, the thrill of an audience sending fresh currents of electric tension surging out along his nerves. Aware that he’s putting on a show and eager to make Phil come just from the sight of his own orgasm, Chris shuts off the spa jets, the water clearing of air bubbles to leave him exposed as he begins to work himself in fast, practiced strokes. Neither of them speaks for long, long minutes, gazes fixed on each other, breaths coming in ever faster, shorter gasps until Phil finally grinds out.

“Fuck, you are gorgeous.” His voice is hitching slightly, as he mimics Chris, hand wrapped firmly around his weeping prick, stroking firm and fast. Another ripple of sensation sparks up Chris’ spine and he shudders, pressing his thumb firmly against the head of his cock to stave off his orgasm for just a moment longer and Phil arches, his own cock quivering in his grasp and whispers “Let it go, come on Chris, come for me.” His voice is threaded with need and pained arousal and the sound of it breaks Chris, one last stroke of his hand sending him arching into orgasm – the viscous, milky threads of come arcing across his chest and belly. He milks the last spasms to the sound of Phil whispering. “Gorgeous boy, fucking exquisite, you know that don’t you? So fucking gorgeous…” until his voice breaks on a moan and Chris’ cock gives one last spasm as he hears Phil come.

 


End file.
